Domestic Disturbance
by V. Laike
Summary: I think your brother is planning to kill someone.


Any characters you recognize aren't mine, and no money is being made. Additional author notes can be found at the end of the piece.

DOMESTIC DISTURBANCE

by

V. Laike

* * *

"I think your brother is planning to kill someone."

That was definitely not the kind of call Don Eppes expected to receive at 5:47 p.m. on a Friday evening just as he was finishing up a stack of paperwork. After a day of filing reports and completing performance evaluations, Don had planned to unwind with a six-pack of beer and a game on the tube. Where he would do his unwinding—at his apartment or at the house—he'd planned to let his car decide. Instead, the phone had decided for him.

"Whoa, Dad, slow down. What?" Don's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Charlie. He's out in the garage. In all the years I've known him, I've never seen him this angry. Can you stop by the house? And bring pizza."

Now, as Don pulled into the driveway of the Eppes house, the mingled aromas of sausage, peppers, and onions wafting toward him from the passenger seat, he took careful notice that . . . everything seemed perfectly normal. The light was on in the garage, there was a light on in the living room, and the porch light greeted him with a warm glow.

"Oh, I see how it is," Don said aloud to himself. "You boys just wanted me to spring for dinner tonight."

But as soon as he stepped through the front door, his father was upon him, grabbing the pizzas from his hands and heading toward the kitchen.

"I'll put these in the oven to keep warm. Charlie's out in the garage."

Whoa. Okay, so something really was up. "You want to tell me what's wrong?" Don called toward the kitchen as he set the six-pack on the table. Under his breath he added, "Should I get my vest?"

Alan returned from the kitchen. "He'll tell you about it. The can of Pledge should have been our first clue."

"Wait, what?"

"Just go!" Alan pushed his eldest son toward the door leading to the garage. "Before he does something he'll regret."

Whatever had happened had apparently sent Charlie into an apoplectic fit that Alan couldn't calm him down from.

Don entered the garage to find Charlie scribbling on the chalkboards. Nothing unusual about that. But Don immediately noticed that only one board was full; the rest had been . . . washed?

"Hey, Chuck. Dad said you're a little grumpy this evening. I brought pizza. You know, the good stuff from that new family place over in my neighborhood."

Charlie turned away from the chalkboard, chalk still in hand, and glared at Don. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut and returned to his numbers.

Don kept his voice calm, with a coaxing inflection. "So why don't you come into the house and eat while it's still hot?" Dad was right. Don didn't think he'd seen such angry body language from his brother since . . . well, since he, Don, had invited Val to the senior prom. And that had ended in a wrestling match in the front yard.

The chalk paused in mid air. "Get out," Charlie whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, get out."

"Hey, Charlie, what's wrong?" Something _was_ wrong, seriously wrong.

Still Charlie would not face Don. He took a deep breath, attempting to control the ire in his voice. He only partially succeeded. "Don, I am about two seconds from snapping something, and I'd prefer it not be my brother's neck." As if to confirm his tense words, the chalk in Charlie's hand snapped in two.

"Okay, just tell me what happened." Don adopted the tone he used when negotiating with hostage takers or other violent, unstable criminals. To be using it with his brother felt a little strange.

"She washed the boards."

"Who? What?"

"Consuela. The new maid. She washed the boards."

Suddenly everything fell into place. A can of Pledge—the first clue. Dad had said something a couple weeks ago about the new maid Consuela leaving a can of Pledge on one of the end tables. He hadn't been pleased, of course. One didn't use just any "over the counter" polish on classic, vintage Craftsman woodwork. He'd spoken to the young woman once already after finding the polish the first time, but in his excitement over his date with the caterer, it hadn't been that big a deal last week. It was merely an annoyance, easily remedied once Alan figured out how to tell the girl in Spanish which products the furniture and woodwork needed and where Charlie kept them.

But this . . . None of the boards were clean because _Charlie_ wanted them clean. Of course not. The new maid had come into the garage . . . with a bucket and a sponge . . . and whisked away all of Charlie's cognitive emergence work. Okay, this was not good.

"Charlie, now just—just calm down." Don stepped toward his brother as if the new piece of chalk in Charlie's hand were an automatic pistol. "I'm sure she had no idea what she was doing. She doesn't even speak very good English. How's she supposed to understand your cognitive emergence stuff?" Don had halved the distance between himself and the mathematician.

"She shouldn't have been in the garage. This is my—our—my think space."

"I know. I know." Don eased another step forward. Still Charlie had not turned around.

"I mean, you come out here, too, when you have to think."

"Yes, I do."

"I've made some of my best breakthroughs out here. And she—she just came in and wiped it all away."

"I'm sure she didn't mean to." Another cautious step, but what exactly was he expecting to do? Disarm Charlie of the lethal piece of chalk he was holding?

Charlie's hands flittered through the air, retracing what he'd just written, then continued on as if there had been no interruption.

There had to be a Plan B. Don's own were sometimes improvised, but Charlie's were often by design. "What about your notebooks?"

Without breaking stride, Charlie pointed to the stack of notebooks on the desk.

"Okay, good. So you don't have to re-create everything from scratch."

"Not my work, no."

Don paused. He was within arm's reach of Charlie now.

"What do you mean, 'your work'?"

"My cognitive emergence work is completely backed up. I put it on the boards, I transfer it to the notebooks, then it goes onto my laptop, and I save it to disc."

Now Don was puzzled. "So what's the big deal?"

"She wiped away the algorithms I was developing for your new case. I'm trying to re-create them from memory, since she also pitched the files you brought home for me to work from."

* * *

From inside the house, Alan heard his sons' raised voices. But it wasn't Don trying to calm Charlie. It sounded like it was the other way around.

"She _what_?"

"Don. DonDonDon. Calm down. Put—no—put it down, Don. Don. You can't. No. Just—let's go have some of that pizza. Okay? Don?"

_finis_

* * *

Disclaimer: No FBI agents were reprimanded or lost their jobs as a result of this fic. It is a piece of humor, and Consuela promises that she did not pitch the files; she simply moved them to Don's old room. If Don looks in the box in his old bedroom, he'll find that all the files are there. He'll also find something else that's very interesting. Wouldn't you like to know.

Author's Notes:

This fic was started as the result of idle conversation.

It was finished because blatant, pointless product placement lacking even a minimal attempt at motivation or context cannot go unmocked.

The initial conversation went something like this: I had just finished watching one of the late Season 1 eps on DVD and wrote to Izhilzha . . .

_V: The Eppes men really need a woman in the family. One of them needs a steady ladyfriend. There just seems to be so much . . . male-ness . . . in that home. Not that that's a bad thing, mind you. It just occurred to me that they'd better get a balancing influence in there before things become too . . . bachelor._

_Izzy: Hah. I was totally thinking that while watching "Prime Suspect". Such a bachelor-pad feel, even if the house is beautiful (they've got to have a maid or something)._

_V: Oh, I'm sure they do. Someone who comes in once a week to dust. She's not allowed in the garage, though._

Then, when I was watching the most recent airing of "The O.G.," I saw evidence of Consuela's presence: the can of Pledge left randomly on the end table, competing with Charlie in the shots in the living room. That's. Just. Wrong. Alan will be having a serious—if confusing—conversation with Consuela about her carelessness. Actually, since Colby speaks fluent Spanish, Alan and Charlie are going to have him come over to translate. But that's a whole 'nother story.

Addenda:

Aug. 5, 2006 - Oh. My. Word. Consuela strikes again. I just got done watching the re-run of "Backscatter," and she left a container of Lysol wipes sitting on the table, right next to all of Charlie's computers. Will the girl never learn? (Btw, the Lysol does not appear in the original airing. I've got both on Tivo as my proof. g)

Aug. 26, 2006 – Again with the Lysol wipes. At the end of last night's syndicated airing of "Mind Games," there's the telltale container of Lysol wipes on the table. (Again, Tivo proves that it wasn't there in the original airing.) At least I actually had to look for it this time; the container wasn't glaring at me like some horrible reminder that Consuela can strike at any time like some sort of careless housekeeping ninja (which, apparently, she can).


End file.
